


End of the Line

by emiliahparton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Don't really know what to tag yet, I mean I think it's going to be pretty sad, M/M, No one's having a good time, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, or that's the plan anyway, there's a lot of blood, um, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliahparton/pseuds/emiliahparton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of The Winter Soldier. </p>
<p>It takes SHIELD many months and costs hundreds of agents to finally take in the soldier. Steve thinks that's the hard part over; now he has his friend back. He's very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Field

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic I've actually published and I have no idea what you're all going to think. Please let me know if you like it or if you have any improvements. I welcome any criticism. 
> 
> I can't promise regular updates because I'm busy with school and I'm generally very lazy. Sorry about that. I can, however, say that I'm improving all the time, so later chapters should be better than this. 
> 
> Still, thank you so much for reading. I'm phenomenally grateful. :)

They found him on the ground, curled up in the dirt, covered in blood. Around him, the air smelled like iron and gore; thick and fevered. He was facing away, looking out across the battlefield, his face hidden from view. His clothes were torn; the leather that normally covered his right arm was nearly gone, and most of the fabric on his legs and torso had disappeared. Each bare patch of skin was either black and bruised or red and bleeding, and his ankle was bent back too far. His left arm had lost its metallic shine, and blood had seeped into each new scratch and dent.

Steve wondered how much of that blood was actually his. Either way, he didn’t want to think about it.

The more Steve looked the more lacerations he discovered, and soon the iron block of dread in his stomach was so heavy that he couldn't move. The soldier had so many wounds- each one savage and crude- and there was a constant, sluggish stream of red running down over his back. He barely looked human now, with his body so bent out of shape. Huge swollen hills had formed over his ribs along with the gaping valleys along his chest. Amidst the wreckage of skin and blood, Steve saw a white flash of bone.

For a sickeningly long moment, he thought the soldier was dead. Even when he was right by the soldier’s side, kneeling in the red mud, he didn’t move; didn’t recoil or run away or try to attack as Steve had expected. It wasn’t until he placed a hand on the soldier’s arm that he got a reaction- as weak as it was. The soldier’s breathing became loud, ragged, scared, and he flinched away. His legs kicked at the ground helplessly; too weak to do anything more effective, and his metal fingers skittered over the soil. He made a noise that sounded far too much like the whine of a dying animal, followed by a short hiss of pain.

More than anything, Steve wanted to comfort him- he wanted to reach out and take his hand, wrap his arms around him and clean his wounds - but before he could move closer he felt hands on his arms, pulling him backwards. He knew they were only his team, a sparse mix of SHIELD agents and military, trying to stop him from doing anything stupid (like hugging a bloody, brainwashed assassin, for example) but he fought against them anyway, throwing them away like they were nothing. He tried to make his way back to the soldier, but it had only taken a few seconds for his team members to converge on the body. By the time he felt strong enough to look back at the soldier, he had disappeared inside the rabble of operatives.

His fists clenched. He would have pushed past them all- would have hit anyone who tried to stop him- just to catch a glimpse of the soldier’s face before he was taken away. He’d waited years for this, for a chance to see his friend again, and he deserved a moment to look. They owed him that.

But he didn’t fight them. He remembered the savage tears in the soldier’s skin and the way his fingers hadn’t even been able to make a dent in the Earth when he clawed at it, and it started to sink in just how close to death he was. Each second he spent pitying the soldier was another nail in his coffin, and Steve wouldn’t survive if he thought he’d let his friend die. Again.

So he let them take the soldier away. As the agents converged on the injured man, Steve couldn’t get rid of the image of flies buzzing around a corpse. He wanted to be sick.

He could feel someone coming to stand by his side, and he caught a flash of her red hair in the corner of his eye. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “They just need to patch him up.” Steve’s jaw clenched. _He isn’t a machine, Natasha,_ he thought. _He’s a human being. He’s my friend. You’ll have to do better than just ‘patching him up’._

They stood in silence for a while, watching the flies buzz over the bodies. She looked over at him, genuine concern painted over her face. “Are you okay?”

He thought about the blood, the cuts, the smell of death. He thought about the sound he’d made, the desperate, pleading whimper. He thought about the time before he was a soldier- before either of them were- and they’d smiled and laughed and promised they’d never give up without a fight. Steve’s chest was full of ice. “I’m fine,” he said, and she didn’t say anything after that.

With the soldier gone, airlifted out, Steve finally noticed the rest of the carnage. There must have been half of SHIELD’s remaining forces here, all surrounded by great pools of red, all just broken bodies. Some had been killed cleanly- a bullet in the back of the head, shattered skulls- whereas others looked like they’d been torn apart- limbs missing and flesh ripped away. He didn’t see any other agents, just SHIELD’s fighters. It can’t have happened like this. SHIELD couldn’t have been butchered so easily; they couldn’t have been this poorly prepared.

There were rumours that Hydra was back, setting up in small pockets, but they weren’t organised enough to carry out an attack like this, at least not without casualties. Which only left one explanation.

He turned to Natasha. “Did he do this? All of it?”

She shrugged, her eyes scanning the field. “Maybe. You fought him a lot- you think he’s capable of taking on all these people?”

Steve stayed silent. He didn’t want to remember fighting the soldier any more than he wanted to think about him murdering all these people. If the soldier did it alone, he must have been fighting until he dropped. His bullets would have gone relatively quickly and he hadn’t had a knife in his hand when Steve had found him. He must have carried on, taking hit after hit, sustaining injury after injury, just fighting until he physically couldn’t stand anymore. There was a chance that yes, he was strong enough to murder all of them- Steve just couldn’t believe that one human being would kill himself just to cause this much carnage.

He found himself saying, “It wasn’t him, not really. He’s not a killer.” The words had been involuntary, and he had no idea why he felt they needed to be said but he was saying them, clinging to them like a lifeline. He’d never needed anything to be as true as this.

“I know,” Natasha said.

“I knew him. He would never have done this if they weren’t controlling him.”

“I know.”

“This, this is HYDRA. We know them; they’re evil. They’re pure evil and they made him do things… But he- without them he…”

“I know, Steve.”

His stomach was rolling and he’d never felt so sick in his life. His eyes were stinging and he was blinking furiously. “I knew him,” he said quietly. Natasha reached over and took his hand. They stood in silence as they watched the flies collect the remains.

With each fresh corpse loaded into a body bag, Steve felt the pit in his chest grow larger. He could have stopped this happening if he knew. If he tried just a little bit harder, he was sure he’d have been able to get here faster and help them. He could have fought with them, protected them. If nothing else, he could have distracted the soldier enough that the others could have got away. If he’d known how great the massacre was going to be, he would have done something more. He could have saved them.

It was what he told himself, but he knew it probably wasn’t true. Could he ever have hurt the soldier? In normal circumstances he knew it would be impossible- he was his friend, _he knew him_ \- but if he’d witnessed the soldier do all this… Maybe he could have killed him. Maybe he could still do it now, if he needed to.

He stood until he was numb from cold, watching the world drift around him as the sky changed from white to black. He hated the cold. It made him remember the ice, the way his body wouldn’t listen to anything he said, how he went to sleep and when he woke up, he was in a different world. But he couldn’t look away. The field was looking less like a war-zone now; just a solid plane of mud dotted with churned pockets of grass. If it weren’t for the slight hint of red staining the ground, you wouldn’t know anything had happened here at all. He wondered what they’d do about all the blood; whether they’d wash it away or just leave it there, to be sucked into the earth and forgotten. He thought about how the field had looked just a few hours before, strewn with faceless remains and piles of gore, and realised how good SHIELD were at forgetting.

“We should make a memorial,” Steve said, and he saw a wisp of white smoke leave his mouth as he spoke. Natasha didn’t say anything. “These people were brave. They deserve to be recognised.”

“I don’t think SHIELD’s going to do that,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Why not?”

“We can’t let people know this many agents were killed here, especially if it was just one man who did it,” she said. “It’ll cause panic.”

“People should be panicking,” Steve replied, voice rising. “This is scary. We need to warn them.”

“There are better ways to get rid of what’s left of HYDRA, Steve. You know that.”

“No, no I don’t,” he said. “We should be fighting to protect people- nothing else matters.” He waved his hand at the field in front of them. “We couldn’t save any one of them.”

Natasha sighed. “If we make all of this public, we’d just be causing unnecessary panic. Not to mention that if we do tell everyone, it’ll scare HYDRA. They’ll attack us with everything they have left and we won’t have any idea what we’re up against. It could be massacre. For all we know, they could have a thousand super soldiers hidden away.”

Steve couldn’t argue, as much as he wanted to. He ran his numb fingers through his hair. “So… We just pretend this never happened?”

“No one’s saying that.”

“Then what are they saying?”

“I don’t know what SHIELD’s planning on doing, but my guess is we’ll give them a quiet funeral. Something honourable. Personal.”

“They deserve to be remembered,” he said, his voice low.

“They knew what they were signing up for when they joined SHIELD. This is all part of it.”

Steve bit out a humourless laugh. “So this is how we’re all going to end up, huh? This is how all of us die?”

“No, you’re Captain America. You’re an Avenger.”

He turned to face her, bristling. “And that means I matter more than them? They died just as bravely as I ever will but they’re just picked up and buried somewhere they won’t be seen, while I’m the only one given a real funeral. How’s that fair?”

She didn’t look away, even though Steve was sending the most violent look in his arsenal. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Steve-“

He didn’t let her explain. He was certain that whatever answer she gave would just make him feel worse. He was practically sprinting towards the huddle of trees behind him, and when he got there he just kept on running, didn’t stop until he was completely surrounded by thick walls of trees. He lost sight of the stars and he huddled in the cold, just breathing.

Hundreds of people had died and he couldn’t stop it and the soldier killed them and the soldier was his friend and the soldier was dying and when he looked down he saw splatters of blood on his boots and he was so, so cold and he almost wished he could crawl back into the ice and sleep for seventy years.

He threw up behind a tree, retching until there was nothing but green bile in his throat. The world was black and grey, and he couldn’t stop shivering. It smelled like death.

He heard footsteps behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder, he could see Sam’s vague silhouette. Steve stood up slowly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He took the water that was offered to him, and rinsed the acid out of his mouth as much as he could. He handed the bottle back to his friend. Through the darkness he could see Sam attempting to speak, opening his mouth then closing it again. Steve decided to save him. “Before you ask, I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough. “I just needed to not be… there.”

“It’s okay, Cap, I get it,” Sam said, studying him in the dim light. “You want to head back?”

Steve breathed in slowly, taking a final moment to enjoy being hidden. He exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go back.”


	2. Lights

It was never conscious for very long, but the moments in which it was lucid were the most painful it could remember.

The first time it woke up was the worst.

Its first instinct was to scream, but then it remembered screaming didn't do anything. No one listened to screams. No one was going to help it. If anything, calling out just made them more angry so it was better to just stay silent, to accept its punishment for as long as it could, and pray that whatever it had done to provoke them wasn't bad enough to make them go on for much longer.

***

There was light; flashes of white and blue, burning its eyes. Wherever this was, it wasn't the place it had been before- the place it’d been told was where it lived. This was brighter, blindingly pure, where the other place had been dark and familiar. It was exposed here, vulnerable, and the soldier couldn't escape the light even when it closed its eyes. It wanted to crawl back into that hole that was as close as it had to home and sleep until its head was blank again.

But instead it kept moving, watching the white lights twist and shriek around it.

The soldier looked into the darker shapes, trying to grip onto something familiar, and found that there were faces; people. It fell out of consciousness before it could decide whether they wanted to hurt it or not.

***

It was surprised that they hadn't wiped it yet. The last time it slept, it had woken up with a new mind, blank except for a map and an order to keep slashing until every living thing there was dead. It knew that was a regular occurrence; having his head emptied and refilled, emptied and refilled. They didn't let its brain become cluttered and corruptible. As soon as one mission was over, it was rubbed out and replaced with something new.

But this was different.

They were storing the memories, making it hold them. There was no new mission, nothing to guide it forwards. It couldn't follow an order it didn't have, and it knew that if it didn't follow orders they'd reset it. It felt its throat close, its chest going cold.

It was distantly aware that the feeling wasn't new to it, but it’d never felt it quite so strongly as it did now. It had seen it a lot, though. It was the thing it saw behind its targets’ eyes, right before it ripped their throats open. It was the thing it could feel in the way they clawed at its neck and face and arms while it strangled them.

Fear.

***

It thought about slaughtering the people in the field because it had no other memories to focus on.

***

There weren’t any lights anymore; everything was black. For a while, at least, the soldier was trapped inside its own skull. It was the most dangerous place it could have been.

There was a someone in the corner of his mind who was trying to get it killed. A man called James Buchanan Barnes- a soldier too- someone it was sure it used know, back in that not-there time before the ice. Every thought he created was dangerous, but it couldn't silence him, no matter how hard it tried. He would whisper things to it, things about a life it didn’t have and people who’d been dead for decades. He told it to be angry, to be brave, to _fucking fight back_ , but the soldier ignored him. It let him whisper in the back of its head, feeling foreign feelings and finding someone else’s memories. He was easy enough to block out.

Only sometimes he woke up, and sometimes he didn't confine himself to whispering. Every now and then he would see something and raise his head, unfold and fight for a hold in its brain. He told it about the first time it had killed a child, and how he had screamed and screamed until it couldn't hear anything else. He still remembered the man called Steve, and how he managed to claw back some semblance of control. Unlike the rest of it, that part remembered.

When they wiped it, he fell silent. It was only when they left it alone with its thoughts- when there was no mission and no order- that he started to wake up.

And he was waking now.

It could feel the guilt growing, the horror at everything they had both done; that was normal in this corner of its mind, a constant ache, but it wasn't used to the feeling being this potent. For a while, it was so ashamed that it wished they'd come back and wipe its memories again.

But anger was already twisting through its veins, and that was stronger than any of its remorse.

It fought, kept on fighting, but the man in its head was relentless. He was waring the soldier down, second by second, thawing the ice. It was just starting to come to terms with him, just beginning to welcome the part of it that was Bucky Barnes, when unconsciousness leaked back into its system, and everything disappeared.

***

The next time it was awake, it could hear. Fragments of sentences, the scraping of metal, the soft humming of machines. Without its other senses it couldn't make sense of anything important, but it began to be able to separate the voices around it.

It even thought it could recognise one. There was an old memory from that dangerous, _Bucky Barnes_ part of his brain, and it couldn't stop it from escaping. It knew that voice; a man’s voice, clear yet concerned; almost panicked.

It took it a few seconds to realise that the voice wasn’t real, that it was a memory, clear and tangible and solid, and the knowledge that it could still remember anything sent a warm pulse of relief through its chest. It knew the voice, it was sure, but who-

Its thoughts were drifting away and its vision was fading. There was an ache behind its eyes and its limbs felt heavy.

_Who…?_

It was gone before it could figure it out.

***

The next time it woke up, it stayed awake. There were people and machines, light and air, and it couldn't feel its limbs.

It was used to people prodding and poking it- sometimes cutting it open- and the sensation was familiar in a fuzzy, semi-lucid way. But this was different. It was more… personal than it remembered; less removed and surgical. Like it was important. Like they knew what they were doing, how it felt. It didn’t know why that made it worse, but there was a distinct uneasiness coiling in its stomach that wouldn’t go away.

This was new. It didn't know what they were going to do next, and it had to swallow down that thing that could have been called terror.

And then it heard voices, and it realised they weren’t the voices of any of the masters it knew. It started to pull faces out of the blur of shapes around it, but there was no spark of recognition and its unease grew.

At the back of its mind, Bucky Barnes stirred.

This was when the dangerous part of its mind liked it best; when the soldier was doubtful and afraid. This was when he woke up, when he tried to attack. It needed an order, something to cling on to, but it was alone here and completely defenceless.

The soldier knew what would happen if he took over. If it let Bucky Barnes in for even a second he’d cling on and he wouldn’t let go until they made him. They'd beat him, cut him, drown him, and they wouldn't stop until every last trace of Barnes had gone. It had to keep the human part of it away- force him back into submission where he belonged. It couldn’t let him escape.

But Barnes wouldn't listen to reason. He shouted things about bravery and loyalty, about needing to stay strong, about doing the right thing. The soldier couldn't remember what the right thing was.

They fought, thrashing and screaming, pulling against the straps that held it to the steel surface underneath. Outside it heard the voices rising in panic, the faces twisting into something it barely recognised as concern.

But Barnes didn't know how to fight. He hesitated too much, overthought everything, let guilt and remorse cloud his judgement. He couldn't strike as fast the soldier and he was nowhere near as strong. It didn't take him long to break.

Barnes resorted to begging. The soldier’s head was filled with small, desperate noises; _please_ and _stop_ and _you can’t do this anymore, you can’t._ It waited, let Bucky get it out of his system before it kicked him away. The soldier was used to people pleading with it, and ignoring their words was automatic. Letting them live was never part of the mission.

It was calm now, easily able to lie back while the strangers looked over it with invasive curiosity. This was different to what it knew, and still unnerving, but it knew how to retreat far enough into itself that it could barely feel the hands on its torso or the straps on its wrists or the needles in its skull. Bucky Barnes was silent. The soldier breathed.

Its calm was interrupted by a shadow blocking the bright lights, darkening the world behind its eyelids and making the muscles in its chest tighten again. It hadn't been told it could open its eyes so it didn't- just lay under the weight of the stranger’s gaze. It stayed still- unable to breathe- for what must have been centuries until it heard the shadow speak.

“ _ **Is Hydra still active?**_ ”

The soldier didn't respond (it didn't know, _it didn't know anything_ ) so the stranger asked again. The voice was still calm, but more demanding this time.

“ _ **What is left of Hydra?**_ ”

Questions rained down like shells inside its head, and it almost considered asking who was talking; why they wanted to know. But it wasn't its job to know, so it stayed silent.

The pain didn’t come suddenly; it built up, crawling into every corner of its body before it latched on and didn’t let go; shooting along every nerve, shattering every rational thought it still had. The cuts and bruises had been nothing compared to this, as its skin burned and its bones threatened to shatter. There was the taste of blood as it bit down. Its back arched, fighting against the restraints, pulling against skin that refused to let his blood escape.

 _I’m sorry_ , it thought, because whatever it had done to deserve this must have been catastrophic.

The soldier knew screaming was useless- it knew the strangers would never respond, but it was couldn’t control itself. It screamed until its voice died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, a whole second chapter. Get me. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read and kudosed so far- you people rock. Please leave a comment or something if you feel the urge. I don't know if this chapter is a little confusing so let me know if it is. Suggestions are much appreciated! Thanks!


	3. Bad Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long- a hideous combination of school and drama got in the way. 
> 
> This chapter's a little longer than the others, you'll be pleased to know. As always thank you to those who've kudosed and commented- I love you guys more than anything. 
> 
> Also, thank you to FeelsVomit, who I guess you could say is my beta. She rules but I'm awful at thanking people so I don't tell her often enough. Sorry Dean. 
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoy

He'd been told to sit and wait. So he sat. And he waited.

He’d been waiting for five days now, on and off. He would come in at seven am and stay for one painfully long hour until a doctor came to give him the bad news- _“We’re sorry, he still isn’t well enough to receive visitors. Too much of a risk for you to go in. I’m sorry; there’s nothing I can do. Yes, there’s a chance he’ll be well enough later, but you know we can’t be sure. You could try coming back in a few hours if you like, we’ll see if it’s possible. Please be patient. Thank you Captain, the receptionist will see you out,”_ \- then he’d leave, spending his day worrying and wasting time, returning to the facility at noon. By that time he’d be practically tearing his hair out; terrified that he’d arrive to the news that he’d lost his friend again. But they’d just tell him to sit and wait, and the doctor would come to give him the bad news all over again.

By now he’d stopped bothering to hope.

He’d tried to call Fury about it. He didn’t know why he thought that would do anything- Fury was a very ‘big picture’ kind of guy; not the type to do personal favours just because you asked nicely. Besides, he’d already let Steve use a large portion of SHIELD’s (very limited) resources to get the soldier back in the first place, and at least fifty of his agents had been ripped apart. It was understandable that he wasn’t in a very giving mood.

So his only option was to come here every day and pray they’d let him in. He knew he should let it go, because the chances were Bucky wasn’t ever going to get better, wasn’t ever going to be able to see him again, but he couldn’t leave it alone. If something bad happened the doctors would just tell him, surely. Except they hadn’t told him when he’d woken up in the future- at least, not at first- and this was the sort of thing SHIELD would do; deny the truth in an attempt to preserve what little hope he had and keep him in line. The more he thought about it, the more plausible his theory seemed.

Because why else would they lie to him? Why else would they refuse to give him any information?

In the end, there only seemed to be one thing that made sense: Bucky was dead- lost before they even reached the facility- but they didn’t want him to have to deal with losing his friend again. They couldn’t bear to tell him that he had to go back to being alone, so they just sent him away, day after day, until he gave up.

It made sense, he supposed. He didn’t know what he would do if they told him Bucky was gone. As long as there was a hope that his friend was alive, he could carry on. It wasn’t like the loss of the soldier would leave him completely broken- nothing so dramatic- but it would definitely put him out of action for a few months at least, and that was something SHIELD couldn’t afford- not now. What were they supposed to do?

But understanding why they were lying to him didn’t make it any easier to sleep at night, when all he had were memories of the friend he used to have and the image of a man ripped apart.

He hated this. He hated that he’d been alone for so long and now, when he finally had his best friend back, someone who understood, he had to keep on waiting. He hated the feeling that every-one knew something he didn’t. He hated the nausea that clung to him. He hated not being able to have a single thought that wasn’t tainted with guilt over the soldier. He hated-

“Captain. You came about the Winter Soldier, right?”

Steve stood up, taking an uncertain step forward. _Please, please, toady, please._ “Yeah, I did. What are the chances of me being able to see him?”

The doctor shifted slightly, glancing down at his shoes before speaking. “I’m sorry- he isn’t strong enough to see anyone just yet. There’s a risk of him being infected, and his immune system’s extremely weak…” He trailed off, looking pleadingly at Steve.

There was a pause. “I figured.” He didn’t stop staring at the doctor- he was younger than normal, more awkward, not as professional. Easier to appeal to.

“You’re free to come again tomorrow, if you’re still worried.”

“It’s just-” He paused, gathered himself, restarted. “He’s like me, isn’t he? He’s had the serum- or something like it, maybe just a little more watered down. He heals. That’s what he does- what both of us can do. If that’s true, then shouldn’t his immune system be back to normal now? Surely he’s either healed or… or he’s dead.”

The doctor glanced over his shoulder, back to the door. Steve knew that look- it meant some-one was planning an escape route. “I’m afraid we’re not supposed to give that information out. Classified.”

Steve recognised rhetoric when he heard it. _Classified. Sure._ “So you can’t tell me anything? Nothing at all about his condition?“

“You’re aware how delicate this situation is-“

Steve cut him off. “I am, but he’s my friend-“

“Was.”

The word hit where it was supposed to; landing in the centre of his chest and almost making him stumble. The doctor’s face was blank, and maybe he was more professional than Steve thought. He allowed himself a moment before he met the man’s eye again. His voice was low and cold; stone. “He _was_ my friend. And I watched him die. Twice. And if he’s alive in there I want to see him.”

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, and Steve chose to believe him.

He left quietly, without making a scene. It was strange how light he felt, considering what he now knew. They were hiding something, clearly, and that could mean Bad Things, but at least now he had something to do. He didn’t have to sit and wait for them anymore; whatever he wanted to know, had to find out himself. He had resolve, and that was more than he’d had for a long time.

He wasn’t very good at the spy stuff- sneaking around and finding information was more Natasha’s area, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. He was dimly aware that this illegal- very illegal- and there was a large chance this wasn’t going to end well for him. But he couldn’t just leave the soldier, not without knowing if he was okay. Consequences could wait.

He called Nat first. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get into the building without her disabling the alarms, and she could give him advice if he needed it (which he definitely did). She was reluctant at first, but Steve was nothing if not persuasive, and although she refused to come with him, she promised to help him with the technical stuff.

He considered calling Sam, but decided against it. He’d come running if he asked, but Steve didn’t want to drag anyone else into it if he didn’t have to. If he was caught he’d take his punishment, but he couldn’t let his friends take responsibility for his mistakes.

He didn’t need much- a couple of knives and gun, nothing else. Natasha travelled light when-ever she did this sort of thing, and she was his best frame of reference. He wore his normal clothes, something light and unassuming, but put a bullet-proof vest underneath, just in case. He left his apartment at eleven pm and didn’t come back.

________________________

 

The soldier endured, because that was what it had always done.

It was so much easier before. Everything had been automatic, programmed, impossible to get wrong. It remembered it just like it remembered everything else- not as a memory, as such, just a response to a stimulus. It remembered the numbness of everything, the way its muscles wouldn’t hesitate, moving and clicking into place, swift and easy and right.

It could kill a man without thinking. It would be told it had a mission, and the mission was to kill, and it’d do it; wouldn’t even think about how, it would just happen, the purpose flowing through its bones like electricity. It would get into position and assemble the weapon and crouch and aim and pull the trigger because that was what it did, what it was made to do, and nothing else existed. It was just the soldier and the mission, the mission and the termination and the target.

This wasn’t a mission. It was a question, an endless stream of questions, and the responses were not automatic; not numb. The soldier was supposed to think, to wonder, to challenge and probe the memories it didn’t have.

It knew it was failing, staying silent when it was supposed to speak because there was nothing it could say. They asked in voices that felt like fire, burning through its skull; crackling and impatient. They weren’t the voices it used to hear; they were ice, clear and precise, sharp. The soldier knew ice. It knew what it felt like to be surrounded by the cold, filled with it. Fire was more difficult to under-stand. It was burning.

Its head was too full. It wasn’t used to having this many memories, this much raw information. Each time it tried to think, to find the information they were asking for, another thought would come rushing in, breaking the sequence. The world had lost its simplicity, and nothing was as linear as it was before. The landscape of its brain was changing too fast, becoming a new place which the soldier couldn’t navigate. For the first time, it wished it could go back. Oblivion was one of the few things it still remembered, and it wanted it. The soldier had never wanted anything- at least, not that it could recall- but it wanted the silence back, the darkness, the raw, unflinching _cold._

It was lost in its own head, and the desire to forget was overwhelming.

Bucky Barnes knew what to do. He knew how to deal with the chaos, to use it. He’d been questioning everything from the beginning, and he knew the answers to everything they wanted to know. He was ready to tell them, begging to be let in, to save both of them from the fire.

But the soldier wasn’t giving in. Bucky was dangerous. Letting Barnes out for just a second was punishable, and it had promised himself it wasn’t going to be punished like that again.

So it put up with the fire and the pain, let them mix up its head and carried on with the only mission it had left; don’t let the dangerous man in its head win. Survive.

“ _ **Where is HYDRA based?**_ ”

The voice again; fire.

There was a sequence to this. They’d ask a question, which it wouldn’t answer ( _I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know_ ), so they’d ask again. When it didn’t answer the second time, the pain would come. Dull at first, like an itch, like an insect under his skin, but then it grew.

And _god_ , it hurt.

It was like a storm in its veins, its whole body ready to burst open, to send pieces of flesh and blood and metal everywhere. But it had dealt with pain before; it could live with pain. This was more than just pain. It sparked something in its faded memory; reminded it of metal restraints and the roar of machines, of electricity and a rubber bit between its teeth. The taste of blood. Thoughts being torn from its mind.

The soldier didn’t know how long the pain lasted for, but by the time it faded the people around it had gone and the room was dark. They left it waiting (could be for hours or days or minutes) then they’d come back and they’d start all over again.

“ _ **Where is HYDRA based?**_ ”

_I don’t know, I don’t-_

Pain.

________________________

 

Steve wasn’t a killer, and that was his biggest problem.

This was a SHIELD hospital, meaning it was guarded to the nines. At least eight agents, last count, all armed and trained. Killing them- he could probably do that, technically, if he took one at a time. Sneaking past them, leaving them unharmed- that was a lot more tricky. He wasn’t the most conspicuous of people; not good at staying quiet.

And now he was here he was realising this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

He’d managed to get inside the building, at least. Natasha had managed to hack most of the systems, shutting down all the cameras in and around the hospital wing where the soldier was being held. She’d also been good enough to get him a map of the whole facility, including pointers to the lesser-protected entrances. He’d forced his way through one of the second-floor windows, levering it open with the help of a crowbar and some super-human strength.

It was one of the few times that he appreciated being Captain America.

But now he was just outside the hospital wing and there were guards everywhere- two in the main entrance, a few spread between the wards, several guarding the priority patients- and more than enough nurses. There was no way he could sneak past them all without being seen, and even less of a chance of keeping all of them quiet.

He was about to make a run for it- he hoped that if he moved fast enough he might get lucky and avoid them- when he heard footsteps bouncing off the corridor walls. There was no point turning to check who it was- whoever it was, they were going to be a threat- so he darted forward, praying that he could turn the corner before he was caught.

“Sir! Stop where you are and put your hands behind your head!”

No such luck, apparently.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tipped his head back, cursing every God he could think of for letting him try this, then did as he was told, turning slowly. The agent was dressed all in black (no surprises there) crouching slightly with her gun aimed steadily at his skull. She was tired- he could see the dark circles under her eyes- so it took her a moment to realise who he was, but when she did she barely even flinched. As much as he hated her for getting in between him and the soldier, he admired her professionalism. Maybe he could mention her to Fury when he was arrested.

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but this is important. There’s someone I need to see,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

His words weren’t having an effect- her eyes were still locked on him, gun hand steady, a threat written in rigidity of her jaw. He watched her fingers shift, her hand darting for the comm in her ear. Steve was faster.

He was working on autopilot, panic pushing him forward before he could think. There was a knife in his hand, and in seconds it was pressed against her throat with his arm pinning her back against his chest. There was the clatter of metal as the gun skidded over the tiles, and only then did Steve register the crunching of the bones in her wrist beneath his fingers.

He wanted to apologise, because this wasn’t him, not him, never him. He was a good man; hell, he was _Captain fucking America_. Being right was his job. There was something like horror boiling up inside him, thick like tar, oozing in his lungs.

But he told himself it wasn’t his fault. He’d just asked them to be honest with him- that was all. He just wanted to see his friend after waiting for so long. He wanted to be with someone who was just as confused by all this as he was; someone who felt just as dwarfed by the skyscrapers; someone who felt the same instinctive shock every time he managed to make a video-call to the other side of the world. Someone he could share his amazement with; someone who got excited about the little things that were magical to him but commonplace to everyone else. He deserved this. He was allowed to have this.

“You have a key?” he asked, in a voice that felt too dangerous to be his.

Her words were still steady, even with the blade brushing the dark skin on her neck. “Front left pocket.”

“And this can open any of the doors here?”

“Only the rooms I have clearance for.”

He swallowed, shifting his grip. “Tell me where I can find the Winter Soldier.”

“It’s too dangerous. For all of us.”

He pressed the heel of his hand into her throat, keeping the knife away. He could feel the muscles in her neck pushing against his wrist, fighting to let air through. She twisted in his arms but he held on, not releasing pressure until after she’d gasped out a defiant, “fuck you.” He thought of Natasha, and his insides curled.

“There’s a way you can contact everyone in this area, right?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Tell them you need backup in the lobby. Say it’s urgent.” She was shaking when she reached for her comm, but only slightly. He’d expected some sort of fight, but she’d repeated his message as ordered- no deviations.

For a moment neither of them moved, just breathed in the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “He’s my best friend.”

 _Was_ , the doctor had said. _Was_.

She was about to say something, the muscles in her throat jumping, but he didn’t let her. He was pretty good at controlling his strength now, after the months of training, and the blow to the side of her head was just enough to knock her out, but not enough to do any lasting damage. He carried her to one of the thinner corridors and propped her up against the wall. When he walked away he did his best not to look back.

***

He knew he didn’t have long- it wouldn’t take the guards much more than five minutes, if he was lucky, to realise something was wrong- so he sprinted through the maze of shining white concrete, only stopping to glance into rooms and test doors.

Natasha’s map proved to be invaluable. As soon as he’d moved away from the main entrance and towards the official, closed-off areas, all signs of life and character melted away. Only a little more than half the rooms were labelled, and the rest were locked and unmarked. The building was so monotonous, the rooms so devoid of distinction, that even with the diagram he found himself getting lost, having to double back every minute or so to reorient himself. Without the hastily-printed map held tightly in his hands, he never would have found Room 3C, Special Measures Ward.

It didn’t feel like a hospital here; there was none of the familiar simplicity that ran through the rest of the facility. This place was a prison, all dark walls and reinforced steel doors. Room 3C was just as intimidating, with bolts the size of his fist around its edge and a lock he couldn’t begin to understand. He tried the guard’s keycard but all he got was a disappointing red light and a metallic voice telling him he didn’t have clearance to access the area.

He dug his phone out of his pocket, slipping the battery back in place, and dialled Natasha’s most recent number. She didn’t answer at first- she never did- just let it ring out. He knew her protocols- checking and verifying each call before she rung back- but he hated how long they were taking. Paranoia was just worming its way into his mind when he felt the cell vibrate in his palm.

“Natasha, the door’s locked. I need you to get me in,” he said, deciding it was better to skip pleasantries.

“They’re looking for you,” she said, apparently getting to her point just as quickly. “Fury’s holding off- I think he’s hoping they’ve all made a big mistake and you’re actually doing something good here- but he can’t wait for long. You have to get out of there.”

“I’m right outside. All you need to do is get this door open and I’ll be out of here, I promise. It’s one of those big electric locks-“

“Steve-“

“There’s no way I can break it from the outside-“

“Rogers, they’re not fucking around. Go.”

He paused, worrying his lip between his teeth. Maybe they weren’t ‘fucking around’, but neither was he. “Can you contact them?” Natasha didn’t say anything. “Tell them I’m not going until they show me Bucky.”

He heard her sigh heavily down the phone. “I hate to break this to you, but you have no leverage here. If they want you out they’ll drag you out.”

His jaw tightened. “I bet I can cause a helluva lot of damage before they do,” he said, his voice dark.

A pause. “Are you really trying to threaten SHIELD?”

He supposed he was, and it was almost funny when he thought about it. She was right, of course- SHIELD may be just a skeleton of what it once was, but it was still big enough to take him down if it wanted to. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling each of the seventy years he spent frozen push him down. “I gotta find him, Natasha.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Not like I got much to lose, is it?”

There was a long silence after that, and Steve spent each second of it wishing he could swallow the words again. “Steve…” Natasha started, and her voice was smaller than he’d ever heard it. His chest caved in a little. “You- Are you listening to yourself? What are you talking about?” There was nothing he could say to that, so he stayed quiet. “Look, I don’t have time to talk you down from this ledge, okay? You need to get out of that building as soon as possible and then we can talk about it.”

The anger came from nowhere, driving the blood through his veins even faster. “No, you aren’t listening. I need to-“

“Have you even thought about why they’re keeping him from you?” _Because he’s dead,_ he thought. _Because he’s dead and they know what that’ll do to me so they-_ “He’s an assassin, Rogers, and at the moment his top priority is to kill you.”

“Maybe it was, but he’s with us now. HYDRA aren’t a threat. He doesn’t need to kill anymore.”

“That’s not the point- they brainwashed him. He isn’t going to be able to reason like that. Look, I know I agreed to help you before but I’ve had time to think about this and… You’ve got to realise this was never going to be a good idea.”

His fist tightened, nails biting into flesh, and his voice turned cold. This just didn’t feel like Natasha. Something about what she was saying seemed… off. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

“Nothing. Steve, I’m on your side here.”

“It’s about Bucky. Is he dead?”

She scoffed. “This is crazy. Listen-“

“Don’t lie to me. Tell me what you know about him.”

There was a beat, the smallest grain of hesitation, and for the first time, Steve regretted ever putting any faith in her. “I don’t know anything.”

“Tell me right now, or I swear to God…” He couldn’t find an end to the sentence- there was no viable threat he could make- so he left the words hanging in the air, hoping it was enough.

When Natasha finally spoke, her voice was quiet but still hard as stone. “Fury didn’t tell me until after you’d arrived at the hospital. I didn’t know when I said I’d help you, I swear.” She took a deep breath. “He isn’t in the hospital. There’s another room- I think I can unlock it, but it might take some time. There’ll be guards outside and more on their way, so be prepared.”

“You know how I can get to it?”

She told him directions and he gripped on to them, repeating them to himself like a mantra. He was running before she could finish speaking, darting along the corridors. He was just rounding the last corner when he heard her speak. “Steve, what you’re about to see… I’m so so-“ but he hung up before she could finish. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

He had more important things to do.


	4. Sounds of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, me again. 
> 
> I don't really know what you'll think of this chapter, to be honest. I played around with some stuff, tried some things... I'm still not sure whether I'm happy with it. I'd love to hear whether you think it worked or if you have any suggestions. Thank you!
> 
> By the way, all I know about poisons is what I've learned from Wikipedia articles, so I can't promise it's totally accurate. I ask you to suspend your disbelief- or correct me if it's totally wrong. 
> 
> Oh, and thanks to FeelsVomit once again. How do you link people in these things? I don't know, just go and check her out. 
> 
> Sorry for the long note and thank you so much for reading!

Outside its room the soldier could hear the sounds of war.

Its world had shrunk down to just this; a small section of the ceiling, a dark corner, steel under its back and over its wrists and ankles. There were only three others who existed, and it had learned to recognise them by now. There was the one who put the needles in his living arm, who caused it pain- the only one who ever spoke to it directly. There was the one who it guessed was a doctor, judging by the long white coat and the way he looked at the soldier like it was a puzzle to be solved, never once meeting its eye. Then there was the other one, who it had never seen and never heard speak, but it could recognise the shuffling noise they made when they walked behind it.

But now there was something coming from outside it’s world, something so terrifyingly foreign yet so achingly familiar. The soldier was used to killing- that was all it knew- but war was something new. James Buchanan Barnes couldn’t help reacting, their shared body shaking in its restraints. Its mind flickered between reality and somewhere new; a place with trees in every direction, unending rain, shadows that moved and hunted and screamed, the rattle of gunfire, blood-

Something slammed into the wall behind its head (beyond the world) and there was silence. The war stopped- no more shouting or thudding- and the half-memory faded. Its world returned to what it had always been; a small section of the ceiling, a dark corner, steel under its back and over its wrists and ankles. The soldier held its breath and waited.

_____________

 

There was a bullet in his arm, but bullets didn’t mean much to Steve anymore. It hurt like hell and he was losing a lot more blood than he was comfortable with, but it wouldn’t take long to heal. The bullet passed clean out the other side, so he didn’t have to worry about finding it in the remains of his bicep. All he had to do was tear off a sleeve of one of the guard’s shirts, tie it tight to stop the blood flow and wait for the skin to knit back together. It felt almost like routine.

He knew a wounded arm would make it difficult to fight the soldier, but he figured that if the soldier wanted to kill him he was as good as dead anyway. That was okay. He wouldn’t mind. He could tell himself it wasn’t his friend, even if he looked just like him. _He’s not Bucky, it won’t be Bucky, he’s gone, he’s-_

There was a keycard in one of the guard’s pockets, and this one worked. There was a password to input and a retina scan too, but Natasha must have done something because while Steve was trying to figure out another way in, the door clicked open.

For a moment, he wanted to run. There was an assassin in that room, a man whose sole purpose was to kill him, a man who knew nothing but death. He had to be an idiot for wanting to go in there. _You’re gonna get yourself killed like this, one day,_ he remembered Bucky telling him, back when a punch felt fatal and bones took months to mend. _Even_ you _can’t save everyone, punk._

Steve hadn’t listened then, and he wasn’t going to listen now.

The door was heavy but it opened smoothly, welcomed him in. It was dark in here, just like most SHIELD facilities were, all black walls and muted lighting. The whole room was humming, filled with instruments and monitors, and-

Steve closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Opened them.

_Jesus, is that-_

He was lying in the centre of the room, hemmed in by machines-

_No this can’t-_

a dull steel surface beneath him, like an operating table, and thick metal clasps holding him down-

_Bucky-_

wires spilling out of his metal left arm and thin, translucent tubes tying him 

_No-_

to the surrounding machines.

He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Opened them.

The soldier's hair was soaked through with sweat, the strands clumping together to form thick ropes. His skin was pale, tighter than it had had been the last time Steve had seen him, but there were no bruises anymore. There were hardly any signs of injury left, except for a few white scars that snaked over his body, around his flesh-and-blood arm, across his ribs, down along his legs.

His eyes were closed. His hand was shaking.

Steve couldn’t do anything for a while, just watched the soldier take each laboured breath. He knew he should say something, but his throat was too tight and his head was too full; he couldn’t even begin to find the right words. Instead, he forced himself to peer into each dark corner of the room, to watch the lights from the monitors reflect off each crude metal surface, to count the wires trailing on the floor.

He found blades on a tray to the soldier’s right- scalpels and needles and tiny electric implements; all surgical equipment. It almost felt like nothing was wrong, like this was a routine operation, like he was just here to be cut open and stitched up and sent on his way, and Steve wanted to believe that so much that he almost did. If you squinted a little, it felt normal (or as close to normal they got, anyway).

But then there were the cuffs holding him down, and the fact that there was no evidence of any anaesthetic. There were the knives that looked slightly too heavy to be surgical, and the way that the soldier was shaking almost undetectably.

Then he found the poison, hidden inside a cabinet at the side of the room. When Steve had woken up here, after he’d had a chance to get over the shock, they’d given him training; teaching him about the new dangers that came with the modern world. They’d told him that poison was one of the best ways to kill- it could be quick to act and undetectable, providing you could afford the good stuff. Being who he was, pumped full of serum, there were very few poisons that could actually have an effect on him, and it was never a real threat. Poison couldn't kill him anymore. 

But it could still hurt like hell.

They told him about a weapon they'd been testing, vyanin, a poison with one of the most painful toxic reactions they knew of. It was fatal to most people, and they’d be gone in less than an hour if it went untreated. There were spasms, convulsions which got worse with every touch, an intense pressure in the chest, limbs that felt ice cold. The victim would normally die from asphyxiation due to tightening in the muscles around the throat or exhaustion from the muscle spasms.

There were ways to treat it, though, and there were occasionally stories of people recovering. Doctors used muscle relaxants like dantrolene, anti-convulsants like diazepam or phenobarbital, an activated charcoal infusion to soak up the undigested poison.

Except there were none of those here. Just vials and vials of concentrated vyanin, ready to be injected.

A jolt of ice shot through his body. No wonder Natasha had apologised.

It made so much sense that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. They had barely any information on HYDRA since SHIELD’s collapse, and no viable ways to gather intelligence, so when they captured one of HYDRA’s biggest weapons what were they going to do? The soldier was currently their only asset and this was the only way to gather information. In a twisted, heartless, utilitarian kind of way, it made perfect sense. Desperate times, desperate measures. Steve could understand that.

But he still swore he’d tear Fury apart the first chance he got.

He stepped forward, fingertips resting on the metal surface next to the soldier’s neck, wanting to touch, to comfort his friend but not daring to go any closer. He watched the soldier tense, his shoulders go rigid, his face crease as he forced his eyes shut. Steve swallowed, removing his hand. “It’s okay, Buck. I‘m gonna get you out.”

The soldier flinched at the sound, recoiling away from it, his eyes flicking open. He tipped his head sideways and his pupils were still shrinking in the dim light as they locked onto Steve. He couldn’t quite figure out the soldier’s expression, not fully. There was fear there, but it was trapped behind other things; confusion, anger, the weak tension of someone in pain. He was breathing quickly, his human hand curling into a fist as he stared at his target, and although this man looked so much like Bucky, something about him didn’t fit. It was like someone else wearing Bucky’s face, and it threw Steve so off balance that for a few seconds he couldn’t do anything but stare back, just as terrified.

It was only when he saw the soldier’s hands shift weakly against the metal cuffs that he broke from his daze. He could barely operate any of the computers lining the walls, but he got by well enough, navigating his way through menu after sub-menu until he found a button labelled “RESTRAINT LOCK”. He had to use one of the guard’s keycards to carry out the command, and even though the guard wasn’t officially high up enough for it to work, the cuffs snapped open without complaint. He suspected Natasha had something to do with that too.

Behind him, he heard the scraping of steel as the ground shuddered. Before he had time to turn around the soldier was on him, chest pressed against his back and the living arm wrapped around his neck. Its steel counterpart- still with wires sticking out of the side- held a needle, thumb resting on the barrel while the tip grazed his neck. Steve’s hand wrapped around the soldier’s arm, tried to tug it away, but despite everything he’d been through the man ( _machine, assassin, whatever_ ) was still strong. Steve swallowed and tasted dust in his throat.

“Why are you here?” The soldier’s voice was low and rough, worn from lack of use. His breath rattled like gunfire.

Steve tried to keep his breathing steady, even when his blood was racing. He stretched away from the poison point in his friend’s grip, felt his muscles tighten. “I want to help you,” he said, meeting the soldier’s eye in the reflection in one of the glass monitors in front of them. “I want to get you out.”

“I have to kill you,” he said, not missing a beat. His metal arm twitched and the tip of the needle skittered across the skin on the side of his neck.

“You don’t belong to HYDRA anymore,” he said, and even he could hear the hint of desperation in his voice. “They don’t own you. You don’t have to do what they say.”

“Who says I’d be doing it for them?”

There was a pause- silence except for the whirring of machines.

He watched their dark, muted reflections, saw the wild, savage snarl on the soldier’s lips, and realised that he couldn’t recognise his friend any more than the soldier could recognise him. He tried to find the words, but there was no way to communicate with... _this_.

But then there were footsteps, rumbling outside their room like distant thunder. He could hear shouting, orders bouncing along the corridors, a small army coming towards them.

“I can get you out of here, but you have to trust me,” Steve said, keeping his voice level. There was no response from the soldier, just his arm tightening slightly around Steve’s throat. “They’re killing you. You have to let me help.” Still no response. “Bucky-“

“That isn’t my name.”

Feet thudded outside, a storm of soldiers. Steve swore he could almost hear the click of guns.

“There are already people out there- a lot of good fighters- but both of us might be able to hold them back. The longer we stay here the more agents we’re going to have to fight and the more prepared they’re going to be.” He thought about the war, the train, the fall, the look in Bucky’s eyes right before he died, and he couldn’t help some of the panic seeping into his voice. “We have to move _now_.”

There was a moment when Steve thought he’d finally got through to him- and maybe in a sense he had- but then there was a needle beneath his skin and poison in his veins, and when the soldier stepped back he felt cold.

“Ten minutes before it takes effect,” the soldier said, grabbing a range of knives and scalpels from around the room, “Get us out before then.”

Steve barely had time to breathe before the door was pulled open, and the world melted into nothing but bullets and fists and streaks of red.

His blood was cold.

_____________

 

It was shot three times before it killed its first man. The first bullet only grazed its thigh but the second found its shoulder, knocking it back a few paces followed by a stream of red. It went after one of the gunmen, dragging him into the room and away from the spray of metal. The man managed to fire off a single shot in retaliation- hit its metal arm, dented the surface, stopped it from responding as quickly- but he couldn’t do anything more than that. The soldier snapped his neck, took his guns and his black armour, then headed back out into the fray.

It could see the target was struggling. He was as much a machine as the soldier was; fuelled by instinct, veins filled with something unnatural, faster and stronger than any normal human, but he wasn’t the same. Something was holding him back, something that the soldier was pretty sure it had had once, but it was more potent in the target. That was what separated them- it was what made one of them a killer and one of them Captain America.

The target was faster than any of them, soldier included, but he was hesitating. He was still fighting, still winning, still standing, but he was allowing himself to take too many hits. He thought too much, looked each target in the eyes before he hit them. He was not a killer.

The soldier didn’t have that problem. The time spent in that room had made it slower, maybe a little less precise, but it still knew the basics. It knew the feeling of a gun in its hand, its finger balanced on a trigger. It knew how to translate the world into targets and weapons and pressure points, to pre-empt and prevent each strike. It had always known; it couldn’t remember a time when killing wasn’t a part of him. Within moments it was back to being automatic- away from the questions and the thinking and back to what it knew.

It pushed a scalpel into a woman’s throat. Punched a man with metal. Hit in the shin, dodge, block, knee in the stomach, bullet in the head. Step right, left, new target, man with green eyes. Miss, catching him in the leg, hit, threat eliminated. A fist coming from nowhere, the walls spinning and twisting, pain in its abdomen, red, _red_ \- Gun. Aim, fire, hit. Threat eliminated.

It saw a flash of blond hair above the swarm of dark-clothed agents, and followed the target around a corner.

Swerve, crouch, aim, fire. Fire. Hit. Fire, hit. A bullet shot past its head, smacking into the wall behind it. The soldier twisted and its latest wound roared. There was a woman coming from the left, scalpel, slash, blood, threat eliminated.

The target, now littered with bruises and soaked in blood, tossed an agent against the wall, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the floor. He turned to face to his next opponent, bringing his fists up. “This is a bad idea, Captain,” the agent said, taking a slight step back.

“I know,” the target said, and swept his foot under the agent’s legs, knocking him to the floor. He kicked him once, glanced at the soldier, then continued on his course down the corridor.

There were only a few agents now, too weak to really fight back anymore. It was clear how much SHIELD had lost in the past few months; the fighters were poorly trained and afraid, not yet trusting their own abilities- but it wasn’t the soldier’s job to have mercy.

The sound of breathing to its right. Dodge. Swipe, miss. Aim, fire, hit. There was a half-hearted round fired somewhere in the soldier’s direction and a weak jab with a blunt knife. It spun around, its hands around his neck, the easy click of bone breaking under its metal fingers, the thud of a body falling on concrete. Threat eliminated. Route cleared.

A siren was sounding somewhere far away, industrial lights flashing above them. The target had blood on his hands, his clothes, his face, and there was a hole in his shoulder. There was an odd twist to his features, something that the soldier vaguely recognised. Ужас; the thing it saw on the faces of witnesses when they saw it breaking bones; the way people were supposed to react to blood and gore and death. It had known the word once- had known the feeling, too- but not any-more. It knew that long ago, before the ice, it would have felt the same.

The target’s arm twitched and he hissed in pain, hand going to his chest as his knees buckled. He landed on one knee, eyes squeezed shut and teeth bared at the ground. The soldier stepped for-ward, something unconscious pulling it to the target’s side before it managed to stop itself. Bucky Barnes- the dangerous man, the man who should stay dead- raised his voice, painting the soldier’s mind grey with concern. Barnes knew- both of them knew- what the poison felt like, tearing at their insides like cold, iron claws, and if the soldier had known how to want, it probably would have wanted to help.

But the soldier didn’t know anything, couldn’t remember, so it did all it could do and pushed the voice away. No room for remorse or regret. Too late. No, it didn’t know the target, it didn’t care about the target, no he’s not my friend-

“You don’t have long,” it said, “We have to go.”

The target looked like he had more to say, but his breath was barely managing to drag itself through his gritted teeth, so he stayed quiet. Instead he pulled himself up, painting a red smear on the wall as he used it to get upright again. He gestured limply forward then starting moving, doing his best to keep running. Every now and then his body would twitch and he’d look like he was about to fall, and the soldier would have to convince itself that if the Captain did fall, it’d have the sense to leave him behind.

It knew it wouldn’t be able to, though, just like it hadn’t been able to leave him in the river. There was some sort of pull, something it refused to acknowledge, something that Bucky Barnes whispered to it whenever it tried to sleep. It hated the target for everything he had done- for how he had ripped it away from the only world it knew, how he had robbed it of its oblivion, how he had woken up a part of it that should have stayed dead. 

But it couldn’t let him die.

By the time they reached the exit, the target was shaking. There was a door but it had no handle; just a panel and a slot. It took three attempts for the target to pull the card out of his pocket with his trembling hands, and six for him to push it into the slot. A light blinked green, and he grunted in frustration.

“It wants a password,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain and leaning against a wall next to the door. “Six digits. Even if we get it they’ll have disabled the system by now.” He closed his eyes, giving in a little to the convulsions tearing through him. His chest shuddered then jerked forward. "Any ideas?"

The soldier crouched in front of the door, peering at the electric panel. There was a way out of here, under layers of programming and security. It knew it could find it eventually- it had done this before, thousands of times, and the language was buried somewhere in its visceral consciousness.

“Why did you pull me out of the river?” the target asked. The soldier’s hands stopped. “You could have let me die.”

It ripped the casing off the front of the panel and began tugging on wires.

“You remembered me.”

There was a red wire, a port, a black wire. It pulled at the black one, keeping its metal arm as far from the sting of electricity as possible.

“You wouldn’t have saved me if you hadn’t.”

It ignored him, focusing on connecting cables. Black with blue, disconnect the red. It paused with a wire in each hand, about to touch. It twisted to look up at the target. He was shaking violently now, fingers spasming, grimacing in pain and wide-eyed. When the soldier stared, he stared right back.

“There’ll be gunmen outside,” it said, braced against the fear in his eyes. “When the door opens you have to run.”

The target glanced down at himself, then back to the soldier. “Don’t know if I can,” he said.

“You have to,” it said, pushing the wires together. The door slid away from them, and the world returned to what it had always been, always would be for the soldier; bullets and screams and shrieking metal. The target swore and threw his trembling body forward. He shouted.

They ran.


	5. Change

There had been guns and he had fallen. There had been metal, cold on his arm, pulling him away as the convulsions took him. There had been flashes of white behind his eyes and blood charging through his veins and all the air was sucked out of his lungs. His body had jerked so violently he thought he was going to snap in half. Nothing really felt cold anymore, not since the ice, but even by his standards this felt _cold_.

The metal stayed wrapped around him, and eventually the gunfire faded away. He was aware he was moving, and he knew exactly who was moving him, but he couldn’t see where they going. There were tears in his eyes and they stopped him from seeing anything besides the blurred rush of buildings and bright patches of sky. The pain didn’t fade but a part of him didn’t care; it felt like a victory. _He’s pulling me out again,_ he thought, triumphant even as he lost control of his body. _He’s saving my life. He remembers._

The elation didn’t last long. The sky had gone by the time the pain hit fully, his nerves fraying and snapping, and all he could see was grey. He lost track of reality after that. It wasn’t the usual pain, like a bullet in his arm or the scratch of a knife- not a single wound on an otherwise healthy body. This was all-encompassing, stretching over his skin like fire. There was no reprieve from it- no way of escaping. It was under his skin and it was _everything_.

He stopped being able to breathe. His chest burned as he fought for air, stealing breaths between convulsions. He clawed at his throat as it tightened. He could taste metal.

He was getting colder by the minute, and he couldn’t decide whether he was dying or heading back into the ice. He wasn’t sure which he’d prefer.

There was a sudden blast of pain along his spine, and his back arched higher than he thought was possible. He thrashed, nails meeting flesh and concrete and metal before he managed to get enough air to scream. He didn’t stop screaming.

There weren’t any human thoughts in his head anymore, just instincts. There was nothing but survival, a desperate need for the pain to stop. He prayed for relief, prayed for anything he could get, even if it was just a few moments of-

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,_ and- 

_I can’t breathe_ and- 

_Please, help me, please,_ and-

_Bucky-_

His head was spinning and his vision was so blurred that it was a wonder he could focus on anything, but he managed to find the soldier despite the storm in his head. He was staring at him, his gaze the only solid thing Steve could hold on to, and for a moment he thought he was looking at Bucky. His eyes were the same bright blue, and the line of his jaw matched Steve’s memories of him, but there was something so wrong about him. His eyes were passive, watching Steve’s bones twist with nothing other than curiosity, and he made no move to help. The look Steve sent back was pleading, and _surely he had to feel something_ , but there was no reaction.

“Buck…” It was a fraction of a sound, strained and strangled and desperate, dragged out from airless lungs. The soldier didn’t even flinch, continued to fix him with that bright blue stare, until Steve’s body gave in and his muscles gained minds of their own. His hand shot out, fingers curled inwards as his knuckles scraped along the floor.

It could have been days or hours or minutes before he finally managed to claw back some of himself. He was shaking weakly, exhausted but alive. There was a lingering ache at the back of his neck, but he forced himself to look around, to find the soldier and ask him what they’d done to him; how had they turned him into something so… inhuman.

But all he saw were uniform grey walls, unbroken by light or shadows, and exhaustion took him.

____________

 

The soldier tugged on the thread, pulling it taught with blood-stained fingers. It winced, a soft burn spreading over its leg as it finished the final stitch. It took its time covering the wound, concentrating on getting it right, because there was _no room for failure, soldier_ , but the job was sloppy at best. Fixing itself up had never been it's job- that was down to its handlers. It had never needed to do this- it always used to heal- but now-

It wasn’t going to think about what was different now. Not it’s job to think. Besides, it had bigger things to worry about.

Its target was curled up on the ground, hunched in on himself. He’d stopped shaking now, although an hour ago the soldier thought he’d never stop. It had been unsettling, seeing the target go through what it’d had to and knowing that it was the one responsible. It knew how that felt; each twitch and jerk of the body, each burning breath. Watching the target had made it feel sick in a way that no torture it had endured ever had- a tightness in its chest and acid at the back of its throat.

Bucky Barnes may have called it guilt, but he- _it_ \- was not Bucky Barnes. It was a soldier, and its job was to complete the mission- nothing else.

Only it had already failed its mission, so many times it had lost count. The target was unconscious, bleeding and suffering, but he was still _alive_ , and that made this defiance. That made this punishable. It had never had a problem with killing before- at least, not that it could remember- but somehow it couldn’t bring itself to kill this man, however hard it tried. There was something _there_ , a feeling in the back of its mind that was too strong for it. Something foreign and new, undefinable-

Bucky Barnes knew what it was but it was not Bucky Barnes, and it didn’t know. _I don’t know, I don’t-_

The target moved. Despite the hole in its leg the soldier was back on its feet in an instant, eyes fixed on the target’s crumpled form. He coughed weakly; a wet, strangled sound that rang all through the base, before he managed to breathe normally again. His foot shifted, his shoulder tensed, and then he looked up at the soldier.

It hadn’t been told how to read people- it was never a skill that it’d needed- but it wished it understood now. It wasn’t the type of assassin to lie its way into its target’s life and strike when it had gained its trust, but used more direct methods. Missions were over in hours, rather than months. It didn’t need to talk, to laugh, to understand its victims any more than their vulnerabilities and their weak spots.

But the target was just looking at it, communicating something in a language that the soldier had forgotten a lifetime ago, that it’d lost with everything else. It tried to see, tried to understand _the target_ like the target seemed to able to understand _it_ , but it wasn’t making sense. Nothing was making any sense.

Its metal arm itched to break something.

It settled on just staring back, occasionally checking to see if any of that blood on his clothes was fresh or if those wounds were still open. It didn’t move to help when the target tried to stand,or when his legs gave out under him. It kept its back pressed against the wall and tried to ignore the voice in its head.

It wondered why it had stayed this long, why it hadn’t given up its mission and sunk back into the shadows, but that was one of those questions it wasn’t allowed to know the answer to, so it didn’t.

Eleven minutes passed (or so the soldier counted) before the target was fully upright. He was weak but uninjured, and it knew the pain would fade eventually. “We should move,” it said, picking up its stolen gun. “I found clothes but we need to get to better shelter.”

The target’s voice was quiet and rough, torn apart by his screaming. “What’s wrong with here?”

“It’s a Hydra base. It’s abandoned but you don’t know who’s going to find it.”

He tensed a little more, glancing around the empty space, trying to take it in. “Does SHIELD know about it?”

“I don’t know.” It picked up the pair of jeans and the rough green jacket it’d found and tossed them into the space between them. The target looked at the pile then back up at the soldier, jaw tensing as he took a few steps forward.

He was only a few metres away, and he was about to reach for the clothes when he stopped and said, “you took my phone.” His words were flat; maybe that was anger. Whatever it was, it made the soldier’s skin crawl.

“They’ll be tracking it,” it said, pulse rising.

“What if I need to talk to someone?” the target asked, and it was certain it heard something there, some hint of rage.

“You don’t.”

“I do if we wanna get out of this alive,” he said, taking a step forward. “I have to explain to SHIELD, persuade them to let us go.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“I have friends in SHIELD. Lots of them still want to do the right thing- I can trust them.”

“They won't help me.”

“How do you know?”

The soldier almost held his gaze, but not quite. The target wasn’t afraid of it, and that had to be wrong because the only people who weren’t afraid of it were the ones who gave it orders. Steve Rogers didn’t feel like a target anymore. It swallowed. “They have to kill me. I’m dangerous.”

Steve Rogers frowned slightly, just a momentary break in his stony calm. When he spoke his words bordered on gentle. “You’re not dangerous to me. If they see I’m okay maybe they’ll reconsider.”

“I poisoned you,” it said, and it saw that register on his pale face. Its stomach twisted. “You screamed for hours.”

Rogers looked down at his hands, swallowed, exhaled, looked back up. “Then what are we going to do instead?”

The soldier took a breath, steadying himself against the wall. “Hide out in the city until we can find a safe way out. I know how to survive here- there’s a place we can stay. Only a day and a half to get there.”

Steve Rogers sighed, running a hand over his brow. It was dark in here- the only light they had was what shone through the small, barred windows just under the ceiling- but the soldier could still see the grey under his eyes, the way he held his arms by his side like they were too heavy to lift. “We can’t run forever,” he said, sounding more tired than anything else.

“If you don't want to run then leave,” it said, its lip curling up into a snarl.

“ _You_ can’t run forever, Buck.” He stared at the soldier again, and the man in its head was practically _screaming_.

“That isn’t my name,” it said, and nodded at the clothes on the floor. “Change.”

Steve Rogers closed his eyes for just a fraction longer than a blink, and did as he was told.

 

________________

 

There was a night, back before the war, back before everything, when they’d had to sleep rough like this. Well, technically only Steve had had to sleep rough but Bucky, stubborn as he was, hadn’t let him do it alone. Steve had refused let him help with his rent and refused to stay in his apartment (he could hardly remember why, something to do with proving he was strong enough to survive on his own), but when Bucky’d showed up at the doorway that was passing as a bedroom with a flask of cheap beer and an extra couple of blankets, his resolve was so weak that he hadn’t even put up a fight.

They hadn’t slept. They’d drank and laughed and been chased by various angry tenants who were _‘tryin’ to get some fucking sleep’_ , and had ended up just wandering the streets until morning. The sky was just turning pink when Bucky had doubled over laughing at something stupid and slapped him on the shoulder, saying, “I love ya, punk,” and Steve had said it back without thinking.

Tonight was a little different to that.

The soldier was silent, weaving between buildings and sticking to the shadows so that even Steve struggled to see him sometimes. They took quiet, seemingly aimless paths, sometimes doubling back on themselves or making sudden turns to avoid being tracked, and it was obvious how easily this came to the soldier. It was like he didn’t know anything else, and Steve realised he probably didn’t. They didn’t meet anyone, and he didn’t know whether that was coincidence or skill. He was half predator, half prey, his eyes always flitting from one shadow to another, just as ready to fight as to run.

Steve followed a few paces behind. He wasn’t as fast as the soldier- the poison’s effects had mainly worn off and he wasn’t in pain anymore, but it had sapped most of his strength. The dynamic was painfully familiar; Steve dragging himself- heavy-limbed and breathless- behind his strong, all-too-capable friend. Only then- when they were kids- he’d been happy to do it; fuelled by his contentment and spurred on by Bucky’s enthusiasm. Back then it had been easy.

Now, though, he was balancing somewhere between rage and terror, and he knew that even he couldn’t stay together for long. If Sam was here he would have called him unstable. If Bucky was here he would have called him a fucking mess.

There was nothing he could do with all the excess anger- he knew how disastrous it would be to take it out on the soldier and there was no one else here- so he was faced with the task of having to keep it in for as long as it took. The thought was daunting, but he knew the fury would keep him moving. He’d always been able to do things in anger that he’d never do ordinarily, and at the very least it gave him a reason not to give up.

The fear, though. That was harder to keep in check. He knew how fear worked, what it did to people. He considered himself an expert in fear, and he knew he had two choices; work with it or give into it.

If he gave into it, there was no doubt that it would kill him. He’d seen so much of it in the war- people letting their fear poison them. One day they’d lie down in the middle of their battlefield and would never get up again, completely resigned to their fate. If they were lucky some bastard would come and put a bullet in their head before they froze to death. If they were unlucky it was days before someone found them, and by then they were mad and screaming and half-rotting. Giving in to the fear meant lying down with all of the other corpses, and he swore that would never be him.

So his only option was to work with it, to store it up, to wait until the right moment to release it. That was what the brave ones did- what Bucky had always been so good at.

But that was easier said than done. His fear was growing rapidly, driving its roots into him until it felt like a physical thing; venomous and suffocating and constant. He’d never felt anything like it, but that was the nature of fear- it was always changing, evolving, until every new terror felt like the worst you’d ever felt.

And when Steve saw the soldier’s leg start to ooze blood, the fear changed again, morphing into something sharper and more savage, raking at his insides. The soldier was still walking normally- he wasn’t even limping- but the blood was coming fast, soaking through the jeans he’d stolen for himself. “Shit, what is that?” Steve said, reaching out for the soldier’s arm. “What happened?”

The soldier whipped round, baring his teeth, and Steve reeled. It took him a moment to realise where Steve was looking, and he glanced down, apparently noticing the blood for the first time. In the street light Steve could just make out the slight crease in the soldier’s brow, but otherwise he didn’t seem to be surprised. He met Steve’s eye again. “I got shot,” he explained, stony and calm.

Steve wasn’t feeling so laid-back. “In the fight?” he asked. The soldier nodded. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned back against one of the walls of the alley and reached down. “The stitches have come undone.”

“When did you get stitches?” The soldier didn’t even look up, just stared at the wound, absently pulling at the denim. “Bucky, what’s-“

“I don’t know how to do it,” he said, flatly. “They always used to fix me if there was a fault. I’ve never done this before.”

Something writhed in his stomach and Steve shivered. “You need proper treatment. We’ll go back to SHIELD, we’ll explain what’s going on.” His tone was pleading, desperate. “They can help…” He trailed off when he saw the flash of terror on the soldier’s face, there then gone in half a second, and realised that he’d already been in SHIELD’s hands and _this_ is what they’d done to him. They’d tortured him, put a bullet in his leg and hidden him from Steve, his friend, the only per-son he remembered. They weren’t going to understand. They weren’t going to help.

Standing in the grimy alleyway in the dark next to the man who was once his friend, he realised how alone they were, and that was the most terrifying thing yet.

He swallowed it down, tried to ignore the way his heart was hammering and the burning behind his eyes, and said, “it’s okay, we’ll fix it. We need a place to rest- we can’t go any further tonight. Do you know anywhere safe? Somewhere close?”

The soldier finally looked up from the pool of blood and gazed out of the alley. He was paler than he should have been. “No,” he said.

Steve ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Okay, that’s okay. Let’s just… keep going. We’ll see somewhere, I know it. We’ll find something.”

The soldier looked ready to argue, but the blood was coming out alarmingly fast and there wasn’t really another option. He took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the wall. Steve could see the flash of pain but the soldier smothered it quickly, taking measured, careful steps that almost looked easy.

They walked for twenty minutes, and through that time Steve could see the soldier getting worse. His façade was starting to slip, and even though his face remained as impassive as ever his body betrayed him. All his movements became weaker, and soon just pushing himself forward looked like a battle. His breathing went back to the loud, scratchy noise that it had been back in the facility, and even in the faint, monochrome glow of the night Steve could see the sweat shining on his face.

It wasn’t until the blood started to drip onto the tarmac that Steve forced him to stop. If he was going to stop SHIELD from dragging both of them back in, he couldn’t leave a trail as obvious as that. He left the soldier leaning against a chain link fence (which the soldier only just managed to protest to) and carried on looking alone.

The building he found was small, sagging so much it looked like it was melting into the concrete, and smelled like someone died in there. It crouched on the side of a road between two much more intact buildings, and looked more like a shed than a house. The windows had once been boarded up, but even that must have been too luxurious for it, because now the roughly-chopped up pieces of plywood were hanging down by single nails, their black, rotted edges clinging on for all they were worth (which clearly wasn’t much). There was a hole in one of the walls inside and the lock on the door didn’t work. The furniture was long gone, except for a couple of moth-eaten blankets, cigarette butts and broken glass.

In his defence, they were desperate.

The important thing was that it was uninhabited, and had the added advantage that blood stains definitely wouldn’t look out of place here. For now, all they needed was a roof over their heads and somewhere they wouldn’t be found unless someone looked closely. It was better than nothing.

By the time he got back to the soldier there was barely any of the fabric not soaked through with blood. He ended up half carrying, half dragging the soldier to the door, coming round the back of the house so they wouldn’t be spotted by the neighbours. He dropped the soldier on the cleanest section of carpet, and went to collect the bottle of nameless alcohol he’d found under the sink. He didn’t really know what it was but it smelled strong enough, and he didn’t have any choice but to improvise.

The soldier was looking like a corpse- his skin had turned a flat white and his arms had fallen limp by his side. He’d closed his eyes and his head was only being held up by a peeling section of wall. Steve’s fear had grown so wild, so out of control that it was all he could do to keep his voice level. “You got a knife? I’m gonna get you cleaned up.”

The soldier jumped, eyes snapping open as he pulled his red leg away. He tried his best to snarl. “Don’t touch me,” he growled, staring at Steve with wide, bleary eyes.

Steve sighed, crouching as close to the soldier as he could without looking intimidating. “You’ll bleed out. Please, just let me take a look.”

The soldier fumbled for the knife tucked into the back of his jeans and pointed it at Steve’s throat. It was meant to be threatening, but both of them knew that the soldier had lost too much blood to be able to use it. “Stay away from me,” he said, and the syllables shook.

Steve held up his hands in surrender. “I get it, you don’t want anyone else messing with your body, but I won’t let you die here.” The knife lowered, but he couldn’t tell whether that was because he was coming round or because he didn’t have the energy to keep it raised. “I don’t know what’s happening to you, I don’t know why you aren’t healing anymore, but if we can understand it we can stop it. We’re both scared, Buck, but that’s no reason to give up. You know me, you know I’m not like them, even if you pretend you don’t. I won’t hurt you. Trust me.”

The soldier looked down for a moment and swallowed. “I’m not giving up. I can do it myself.”

He took the knife and tried to cut through his jeans, and it became very clear that he couldn’t do it himself. His metal arm was a little mangled on the side but it was strong, so weakness wasn’t the problem, but he couldn’t lean forward far enough to reach the wound. Just staying upright was a struggle for him, and after a minute of trying he just closed his eye and lay back against the wall, resigning himself to whatever Steve could do.

The soldier didn’t cry out through any of it- not even when Steve had to go in to flick out the bullet. He winced every now and then, occasionally hissed in pain, but he kept his eyes closed and said nothing while Steve worked. There was no thread to stitch the wound up with, and no needles either, so the best he could do was clean it and bandage it up, tying the fabric he’d cut away around the top of his thigh to stem the blood flow.

Tomorrow he’d be able to do more. He could go out and get supplies; thread and bandages, something to sterilise it properly. He’d have more time and would hopefully be able to see what he was doing. He promised himself he’d figure out what was going on, he’d find a way to save his friend. Tomorrow.

He sat back against the opposite wall, watching the soldier breathe. There was blood on the floor, on the walls, on his hands. The soldier was still pale and his eyes were still closed- in fact, he hadn’t moved at all in the past twenty minutes, at least- but he looked peaceful. Painless. Even if the soldier did die soon, while they were on the run, wouldn’t it be better to go like this, not surrounded by people who wanted to, at best, use him or, at worst, kill him? If nothing else, Steve could have saved him from a painful death. If he could just make his last few weeks or months or _minutes_ comfortable, he could count this as a success. His eyes fell closed.

“Why are you calling me Bucky?”

Steve jumped awake, blinking away the glare of the hazy dawn light. “Jesus, I thought you were asleep,” he said, pushing himself upright. He took a moment to register what the soldier had said. “What do you mean, why am I calling you Bucky?”

“It isn’t my name.” His voice was flat, unfeeling. Steve rubbed a hand over his face.

“Then what is?”

The soldier’s answers were instant, automatic. “Nothing. I don’t have one.”

“But you had one,” Steve said, trying to gauge his reaction. (There wasn’t one.) “Your name was James Buchanan Barnes.”

The soldier had to think about this, and Steve took the time to look over the man’s condition. Some colour had come back but it still wasn’t much, and the way his shoulders were hunched in-wards made it look like he wanted to be tense but didn’t have the energy. “How did I lose it?” he asked. “My name.”

“You didn’t lose the name, it was taken from you,” Steve said, deciding it was best to be blunt. The soldier stared down at his metal hand and bit down on the back of his lip. The gesture made him look so much like Bucky that Steve almost stopped breathing.

“I don’t want it,” the soldier said after a while, and his voice was so resigned, Steve almost would have said it sounded sad. “Bucky’s dead, he doesn’t get to come back.”

Steve felt stupid for allowing himself to hope. He sighed. "Then what am I supposed to call you?"

“Nothing. I don’t have a name,” he said, and Steve didn’t bother arguing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too sure if I like the start of this chapter- reading it again is making me cringe- so I'll have to come back and adjust it later. Hopefully it wasn't too horrible. 
> 
> Thank yous to all of you reading, kudosing and commenting, and another big thank you to FeelsVomit.


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